The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers

by Alan Dean Foster

  A rain of rock and wood splinters descended and everyone covered as best they could. Large chunks were thrown all the way across the harbor into the far wall, taking pieces out of the interior side.

  The ram slid two-thirds of the way across the harbor toward that interior wall on its five remaining runners, trailing two broken masts and a sea of shredded pika-pina sailcloth. Boulders and raped wood formed ugly blemishes on the clean ice.

  A clear gap showed in the wall, broad enough for tran to chivan through twenty abreast. A close-packed mob of screaming, ax-waving barbarians, thousands strong, had followed close behind the ram. They reached the walls and the breach.

  Dozens of grappling hooks and scaling ladders assailed the walls, ropes were snugged tight. Howling bloodthirsty cries, others swarmed into the gap, ready to overwhelm any attempt to close it.

  Those at the walls climbed up, and over. They found only empty spear-slots, deserted battle-towers. Deafening cheers rose from the entire perimeter. The interiors of the great gate towers were gained. The Great Chain was melted into place, but the antipersonnel netting was cut loose and a fresh stream of angry warriors poured in via the main gate.

  Ethan saw a gaudily armored officer gain the open gap, hesitate, and look about him uncertainly, clearly puzzled at the absence of the defenders. Ethan’s hand tensed on the castle parapet. But the cautious officer was swept away and into the harbor by the tight-packed river of attacking nomads.

  Some of the barbarians began to run along the tops of the walls toward the castle and the city. They ran because the ice-paths had been melted and hacked into uselessness. They reached a point where the wall entered the castle itself—and were halted by a solid barrier of stone and a hail of arrows from above. A few began to batter ineffectually against the walled-up entrances.

  Some tried to climb the raw stone itself. They were easily picked off by the archers above. Most turned and, spreading their wings, dropped in a semi-glide to the uncontested ice below.

  The harbor was rapidly filling with screaming, thrashing warriors all milling about and looking for someone to fight. Confusion and uncertainty was beginning to take hold. The mass vacillated, shifted. Then, as one, they rushed on toward the undefended city with a horrible cry.

  The entire remaining strength of the Sofoldian army met them at the shoreline.

  Camouflaged barriers of rock and lines of sharpened stakes appeared, tied together by cables of barbed pika-pina rope. The tough, nearly unbreakable cord had been laboriously studded with sharpened bits of glass, wood, and metal. September and not Williams had been the one who had shown the locals how to make a fair imitation of concertina wire. A hail of crossbow bolts and arrows and spears felled hundreds of the surprised enemy in that first startling counterattack.

  But it was only a last-ditch defense, screamed the nomad officers to their men! One more effort and the soft city-folk must surely collapse! The great wave swept forward again—to lose more hundreds to a barely covered deep ditch filled with sharpened stakes, tipped with vol dung and other poisons. The concealed moat was quickly filled with moaning, twisting bodies.

  Yes again, urged the garishly garbed captains, the resplendent field officers! A last charge to sweep away the fatally weakened defenders! Yet a third time the nomad mass trundled forward, slammed into the Sofoldian line. Hand-to-hand combat sprang up at isolated points along the shore, the barbarian Horde gaining a centimeter at a time, the length of every spear and sword bitterly contested.

  From high on the castle battlements, September calmly said, “Ready now” to his communicators. An acknowledging series of flashes came from a tiny house now perilously close to the front line.

  Meanwhile more of the enemy poured into the harbor, slowed as they ran into their fellows. There must have been ten thousand pressing inexorably against the thin Sofoldian defenses, with more arriving each second, every tran a pillar of hatred and fury.

  “Now,” said September quietly. The message was flashed to the waiting receivers. The flasher operators had guts. They didn’t drop and kiss stone until they were certain the command had been received.

  There was a pause.

  For one terrifying moment, nothing happened. Ethan raised his head slightly and peered through an arrow slot.

  The ice convulsed.

  Concussion lifted him from the ground and slammed him back into unyielding rock. He felt wet stickiness on his cheek, but he’d only scraped himself. A microsecond later he tried to metamorphose into a tiny ball. Down came a bitter squall of ruptured ice, mixed with pieces of barbarian armor and pieces of barbarian.

  Far out on the southwest icefield, Borda-tane-Anst, knight of Sofold, felt the ice-earth shake under him, saw the huge column of flame and smoke erupt in the harbor of his home. His mind rejoiced because the magic of the alien magician had worked. But deep inside he was frightened near to death.

  The earth did not open beneath them. Pulling at the pure white cloak that he’d been lying under all morning, he rose and waved his sword to right and left. Then he and six hundred picked Sofoldian troops spread their dan and started grimly for the rear of the nomad encampment. All carried torches in addition to swords and spears.

  The Dantesque scene in the harbor was revealed as the smoke was borne away by the wind. There was no dust, but stinging, blinding particles of ice still hung in the air, and Ethan was grateful for the goggles.

  Below, an awful cacophony had begun, not of defiance this time, but of pain and fear and terror. The two humans watched, completely oblivious to the antics of Hunnar. Usually dignified to the point of coldness, the solemn young knight had shed his reserve and was leaping about like a cub, hugging every man-at-arms within reach and whooping with joy.

  Uncountable multitudes of barbarian soldiers, who had stood within the harbor a moment ago, now lay dead or dying from terrible wounds. The ice sheet had cracked from the hundreds of charges but had not broken through to the freezing depths below. Eer-Meesach and Williams’ estimates had been proven correct. The ice was much too thick here to be affected by such ancient explosives.

  Not as sound was the harbor wall, which had been subjected to another violent shaking. Several sections looked dangerously near collapse. The schoolmaster’s fuse and firing mechanism, cannibalized from the wrecked lifeboat, had done its task efficiently. The hundreds of charges had gone off within seconds of one another.

  During the night, funnel-shaped holes had been melted in the ice, then filled with glass, metal, bone, and wooden fragments, and a year’s accumulation of bronze, iron, and steel filings originally destined for re-melting in the volcanic forges. Filled with anything that could cut or rend or tear.

  Water had been poured over the pockets of crude shrapnel and allowed to refreeze during the early morning. The barbarians had been cut down like grass.

  Now the battered, weakened army of Sofold came boiling out from behind its barriers and temporary ramparts, howling and shouting as barbarically as their supposedly less civilized tormentors. Axes, swords, and spears fell indiscriminately among healthy and wounded alike.

  Ethan stood shakily and turned away from the sickening slaughter.

  Many of those who’d survived were in shock. They were completely incapable of putting up effective resistance to the ready, prepared Sofoldians. It must have seemed like a hundred lighting bolts had landed among them.

  Now archers and crossbowmen broke from the castle and the stone barrier at the other end of the wall, began retaking their positions atop the ancient masonry. Only now they were firing into the harbor, picking off those still fighting and any trying to retreat.

  The still considerable body of enemy warriors surged dazedly back and forth, with dozens dropping every minute.

  Ethan stared out over the now cleared ice. Then he turned and got September away from his survey of the massacre.

  The enemy raft fleet was burning. Some were raising sail and struggling to escape even as they went up in flames. Fanned by th
e uncaring, indiscriminate wind, the blaze spread rapidly from one raft to its neighbor, thence to three or four others. Ethan saw one sail rigged, only to be struck by a ball of flame blown from a burning storage craft. Pika-pina and mast went up like match and paper in the thirsting wind.

  Distant screams drifted over the ice to Ethan and chills raced up his spine. He put his hands over his face and sank in stunned silence to the ground. September put a gentle hand on his head and tried to comfort him.

  “I know what you’re thinking, young feller-me-lad,” he muttered softly. “But you’ve got to consider what these folk have suffered. The only difference between them and their traditional enemies out there is a little book learning and another philosophy of life. Underneath, they’re very much the same animal … just like most humans are, when we’re pushed. To them the nomad women and cubs are as dangerous as the menfolk. Not because of what they can do, but because of what they represent. Do you understand that?”

  Ethan sat still as the stones. He looked up.

  “No.”

  September grunted and walked away. To the end of his days, Ethan would hear the far-away shrieking.

  Confronted with a murderous, unstunned enemy in front of them and fire behind, the once proud, invincible Horde of the Death dropped helmets, weapons and armor, broke, and fled toward their flaming homes. September was trying to get Hunnar’s attention. The knight finally calmed down enough to listen.

  “Your tane-Anst did his job well, what? Will he have enough sense to watch for those who escape? They’re scared and many are weaponless, but hysterical humans, and probably tran, have little regard for their own lives. Makes for difficult fighting.”

  “Tane-Anst is a good soldier,” said Hunnar thoughtfully. “He’ll take care to keep his men together.”

  Finally Ethan stood and had a look at the retreating mob of surviving nomads. “This tane-Anst only took about six hundred men with him, Skua. Won’t they be badly outnumbered by these?”

  “No group of well-organized, disciplined soldiers is ever outnumbered by a mob, Ethan. Remember that.”

  Ethan turned and looked down into the harbor again. The ice was literally blotted out by a vast array of twisted, broken furry forms and a small lake of rapidly freezing blood. Hunnar came up to him. The knight was trembling now and Ethan thought he saw a little of what September had meant reflected in Hunnar’s face. After hundreds of years of helpless genuflection, reaction to what he and his people had done today was beginning to sink in.

  “The Landgrave watches from his rooms and can see well for himself what has been wrought this hour,” said the knight, his voice slightly shaky. “I go to give him official word of his troops … and to remind him of his promise to you, my friends. Will you come?”

  “No, this is your moment, Hunnar,” said September.

  The knight exchanged breath and shoulder clasps with both of them, then departed at a run into the castle. September strolled to the edge of the parapet and looked down into the harbor. The fighting had degenerated into a bloodcurdling mopping-up operation, with Sofoldian soldiers and militia examining each corpse and methodically slitting the throat of any who lived.

  “It may not be a gesture of the morally highest,” he began, “but for better or worse, by introducing gunpowder here we’ve brought a whole new kind of warfare to this decidedly bellicose people. And you know?” He turned and glanced at Ethan. “Try as I might, I can’t convince myself we’ve done a bad thing.”

  “Bad or not,” replied Ethan drily, dabbing at his cut cheek, “it’s always one of humanity’s first gifts, isn’t it?”

  There was a ball to end all balls in the great castle that evening. It served to cover the fact that many of Sofold’s finest young men had passed to the Warm Regions that day. Sadly, the brave and methodical tane-Anst had been among them, felled as he personally led a squad in pursuit of just one more fleeing raft.

  At least three quarters of the barbarian fleet had been burnt or captured, together with a province’s ransom in armor, weapons, and treasure. And those ships which had escaped had not departed overcrowded.

  To everyone’s intense disappointment, Sagyanak had been among the successful escapees.

  The Scourge’s power, however, was forever broken. From a near god, the Death had been reduced to simply another annoying pirate, whose strength had been scattered with the wind.

  By way of partial compensation, the head of Olox the Butcher was prominently on display atop a jeweled pike at the dinner table. It was joined by the crania of assorted companion warriors.

  The little knot of humans sat in an honored position, far up the table near the Landgrave himself. But they’d seen too much blood to fully enter into the merriment of the night. Only September, sitting next to him, seemed able to throw himself into the spirit of the occasion with honest gusto.

  Ethan stared curiously across the table at Hellespont du Kane. One of the wealthiest men in the Arm. Yet he still wore the same expression Ethan had observed back on the Antares, the day they’d had their private destinies inextricably altered by a pair of indecisive kidnappers. Nor was his appetite affected. He downed a delicately carved slice of roast with the same precision he doubtless employed in the finest restaurants of Terra or Hivehom.

  Ethan felt an urge to put a fist in that robotic face. For a wild moment he thought du Kane might really be a clever robot, and that the flesh-and-blood du Kane was somewhere else, perfectly comfortable except for a mild upset at the loss of one valuable piece of machinery. It would explain several of the odder things about the industrialist.

  But no. He may have been robot-like in some respects, but he was definitely human. Like his daughter. He was just a nice, slightly dotty, schizophrenic old man with several hundred million credits and a daughter as cool-headed as he probably was—once.

  Ethan was discovering the interesting side effects which the steady consumption of reedle could produce in the human system when Hunnar came over. Standing between the two humans, the tran put a paw on each man’s shoulder and leaned close.

  “It is necessary that I see you both in private,” he whispered.

  “Aw, don’t be a party-pooper,” September huffed. “Sit yourself down with us and—” He broke off in mid-sentence when he saw the look on the knight’s face. It was solemn—and something more.

  They left the grand hall, the masquerading torchlight, the flashing, jeweled cloaks and blouses; left the polished dress armor of the nobles and knights and the gowns of their ladies; left them to follow Hunnar down quiet cold hallways and mocking stairs.

  “Isn’t this the way to our rooms?” said Ethan unquestioningly.

  “That is so,” Hunnar replied, but Ethan’s probe failed to elicit any more information.

  From distant chambers Ethan could hear shouts and laughter. The other inhabitants of the castle were celebrating the victory in their own fashion. Once, when they passed a chill open balcony, he had a glimpse down into the town itself. Bonfires blazed in open squares, and every torch and lamp and candle in Wannome was burning. The city wore a necklace of light.

  Celebrating would continue for days, General Balavere had told him. Or until everyone was too drunk to lift another tankard or mug.

  He wondered where Williams had gone. The schoolmaster hadn’t been seen since he’d been introduced as a co-guest of honor. When the Landgrave had presented him and proceeded to make a flowery speech full of lavish praise and sugary compliment, the little professor had fidgeted and squirmed like a five-year-old posing for his first pre-school soloid.

  On the other hand, old Eer-Meesach had expanded in the light of praise like a fat sunflower.

  “Sulfur from the volcanic vents and springs,” Williams had nervously explained to the rapt audience of chromatically clad nobles and ladies, “saltpeter from dry old vents, and charcoal from the townspeople burning cut wood and even furniture.”

  “But not any of the beds!” a voice had bellowed from downtable. Will
iams’s voice was drowned in raucous laughter and he’d slipped away quietly.

  Only to reappear behind Ethan and whisper, “Later perhaps … something rem … show you th … big … okay? …”

  Ethan had mumbled a clever reply, something along the lines of “Yeah, sure,” and ignored the schoolmaster. Williams and Eer-Meesach had then left the room. Maybe to resume the trannish wizard’s lessons in galactic astronomy or to do new work on the big telescope Williams had promised to help him design.

  They turned down a hall that in the past weeks had become as familiar to Ethan as his home apartment on Moth. They passed his room, then September’s, then the du Kanes’, and continued on down a slight ramp, around a corner …

  A little knot of soldiers was clustered just ahead. The passage here was brightly lit. A heavy door to an apartment Ethan had never entered stood wide open.

  The group parted when one of its members spotted Hunnar and the two humans. Parting revealed a single soldier crumpled on the floor. He lay on an uneven frame of dark scarlet. It centered at a spot on his back and the small but fatal stiletto imbedded therein.

  “We’ve looked all over the castle for him,” Hunnar explained awkwardly. “We’ve no idea of where he has gone to, nor how, or why. He may have slipped out some time during the fighting and caught an arrow, tumbled over the cliffs. Tis little point in searching fully til morning.”

  “You think Walther killed this one, then?” asked Ethan.

  “I did not say that … but we would like to find him,” Hunnar added unnecessarily.

  “Did any of the nomads penetrate this far into the castle?” September queried.

  “We do not believe so. But there were those of the vermin who tried to gain the interior. One or two might have been bold and daring enough to crawl along the stone to the side and thence slip through a window.”

  “I wonder if Walther could handle a small raft by himself?” mused Ethan aloud.

  “Think he might have made off in the confusion and hopes to make Brass Monkey ahead of us, eh, young feller-me-lad? Beat us to his friends and maybe salvage their whole original plan … must have tempted him,” the big man said thoughtfully. “I know I wouldn’t try it. A few thousand kilometers of virgin ice to cross, scrapping with Droom and gutorrbyn and windstorm and pirates and who knows what else all the way. Crazy little punk might have tried it, though. If so, I expect he’s saved us some trouble. He knew the best he could expect if we got back was at least partial mindwipe. Man’ll do superhuman things for intangibles like memories.”